


I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies.

by orphan_account



Category: Dorian Gray (2009), The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Angst, Basil lives, Dorian and Basil are girls names, Drug Abuse, Exorcisms, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, I'm Bad At Summaries, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Smut, Take me to church songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 19:46:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17351465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dorian and Basil get a happy ending and reverse the curse with the help of an exorcist AUalso they’re all lesbians





	I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies.

My lover's got humour  
She's the giggle at a funeral

 

Dorian felt nothing when she got the news of Kelso’s death. Nothing is heavier than it sounds. She carried the weight of emptiness, the tears unspilled. The guilt was still there. It had not died with him. The faceless faces covered with black veils, surrounding the dark hole where they were to bury him. All of them empty, and yet they mourned. It was all for show. The man had had no real friends or family. Nobody that would miss him. She thought she ought to have felt relieved, to no longer feel the man’s glare cutting into her, no longer hear the anger and blame. And if not relieved then at least a sense of loss for the closest thing to a parental figure she had, but none ever came. And as he was lowered to his final eternal rest, she laughed. The strangers put it down to grief. It wasn’t grief, it was cold and it was dark and it empty.

 

Knows everybody's disapproval  
I should've worshipped her sooner

 

Harry’s influence had seeped through Dorian’s once innocent mind, tainting every curve with ideas that shouldn’t be there, influencing each whim and desire. It had happened so quick, too quick. After a week, the girls mouth spoke words that were not hers. After a month, Basil had to squint to find the childlike enthusiasm and curiosity for life that had drawn her to the girl. It was replaced with practiced second-hand quotes of exaggeration until it was such a distortion of reality that Basil winced to hear it. The flowers she had once been so fond of, she no longer saw. The soft colours of morning, the brightest darks of the night, all passed her by without a second glance. Her world had become a monochrome image of sin and pleasure.

 

If the Heavens ever did speak  
She is the last true mouthpiece

 

She heard Dorian singing once, when she had left her alone in the room. Snatches of old nursery rhymes and hymns. It wasn’t what she would have thought her voice would sound like in song. She had imagined it to be clear and golden. But the voice that now drifted out of her door was childlike, sliding out of tune as she tried to go higher. Basil had stood outside the door, entranced by this imperfection of the perfect girl. It made her seem more real, more human. Basil had always looked at her like a Goddess, something to be worshipped. Omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent. Slow notes drifted through the doorway and she breathed them in, inhaling the faults. The girl appeared more clearly in her mind with every breath she took.

 

Every Sunday's getting more bleak  
A fresh poison each week

 

“No. No, I have to go see Basil soon, I can’t.” Dorian’s sapphire eyes shifted nervously around the smoke filled room, finally fixing her gaze on her friend across from her. Harry was lying back on the couch, pipe in her hand and opium tainted grin on her face. She looked out of place yet so fitting, her clothes much nicer than the rest of the crowd, but the same glazed over look in her eyes. There was an older woman leaning next to her, a snake twisting and curling its way up her pale arm. Dorian moved to leave but a ringed hand clasped its way round her shoulder and pushed her back down.   
“Leaving so soon?” Both ringed hands were on her shoulder. The face inches from hers. She could smell the poison on her lips, they closed over hers, leaving no space or thought for Dorian’s protest. The woman was on top of her, brown curls stroked her face as she looked up into those drug-hazed eyes. The legs around her pinning her to the couch, her hips moving in slow circles against hers. Harry was smiling at them. The pipe was offered to her again and this time she didn’t hesitate.  
Basil tasted it on her lips when she returned.

 

'We were born sick, ' you heard them say it

 

She was the reason her mother died. It was her fault. It was her fault that Kelso’s daughter was dead. All her fault. This is what he said as he brought the cane down. The mantra to her pain.

 

My church offers no absolutes  
She tells me 'worship in the bedroom'

 

The sunlight streamed through her window, illuminating every curve of her lovers ivory body, of her tousled golden hair, of her scarlet bruised lips. The marks she had made last night remained, a sweetly tangible reminder of their misdeeds. They traced a trail from her neck down to her hips and between her thighs. Basil had a matching set. She would have to wear her high collared shirts for a while to hide them but it was worth it. She stroked a curl of gold that had fallen over Dorian’s face behind the girl’s ear, causing her to stir and blink open her sapphire eyes. They shared a sleepy smile.

 

The only heaven I'll be sent to  
Is when I'm alone with you

 

She laced her slender fingers through Basil’s coal black curls, guiding the girls head where she needed it to go. Their clothes lay thrown on top of the piano that she now leaned against. She had been playing it with the painter in preparation for the next charitable event, but became distracted by all the things left unsaid between them. Her hand had slipped from the keys to the artist’s thighs. Dorian had whispered sweet nothings in her ear and Basil had gotten down on her knees as if in prayer, her brown eyes looking up into her blues, searching for some mutual conformation that what was happening now was right. The hands in Basil’s hair tightened as the girl’s tongue grazed a particularly sensitive spot. She let her eyes fall closed, focusing on the girl between her legs, on the blooming pool of pleasure inside her. Her moans grew louder and echoed around the empty room as the artist picked up the pace. She breathed parts of prayers and curses under her breath.

 

I was born sick, but I love it  
Command me to be well

 

“Dorian, this isn’t right, this isn’t you, we can fix it.” The artist spoke frantically, she wasn’t sure if she was comforting the young girl or herself. It couldn’t be the portrait she had painted, could it? It was wretched and poisonous, but below the surface she could recognize her gentle brushstrokes, the same blueness in her eyes, yet this time it was.. dull... distorted. Dorian stood unchanged, facing her portrait.   
“No.” The voice was low and even, showing no evidence of emotion. Basil focused her gaze from her portrait onto the girl in front of her. Her eyes were as empty as the painting.   
“Dorian, please! We can-“ She was cut off by Dorian’s hand around her throat, pushing her back against the wall, with such force she wouldn’t have believed possible to come from the girl.  
“I said, no!” Rage rushed through her. How could Basil not understand that this was a miracle? She claimed to love her yet wanted to ruin her. The pulse of the artist’s throat raced beneath her fingers. Basil’s fingers tore at the hand that held her, to no avail. Dorian felt powerful. She would forever remain young and beautiful as she was now, live out any arbitrary whim and desire and leave unscathed. And the artist wanted to take that away from her? She couldn’t let that happen.  
But then Basil’s pleading eyes met hers and all strength fell away from her. She let the artist fall to the floor, gasping for breath.   
“Please leave, Basil.”

 

Amen, Amen, Amen

 

She did not think that Alan would have believed her so easily when she said that Dorian was cursed. The look in her eyes told her that she already knew. Dorian’s curse had touched more than just her. An exorcist is what Alan had suggested. Basil had laughed but … She really had no better idea. 

 

Take me to church  
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

 

The girl she loved was tied to her bed. She thrashed against her restraints as chants and prayers echoed around the room. The priest stood over her, eyes fixed on the small red book that he held with two shaking hands. Basil chewed her nail, her heart trying to escape out of her throat, she bit back her grief. Grief for the woman she loved and lost. She had never really believed in God but right now she was praying. Dorian was still in there, she had to be. She had sold her soul to the Devil, they could steal it back, right? They had to steal it back. But at what cost?   
“Basil! Basil, please!” Dorian’s voice was desperate, pleading with the woman who stood terrified in the corner. A whimper choked its way out of her throat, Dorian looked so young, so innocent. Too innocent. In that moment, Basil didn’t believe the girl could have ever done wrong. She brought her hands up, covering her now tear-stained face. Squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head as though she could wish herself away from here. The voice spun lies of her innocence, her youth, her love for the artist. Basil tried not to listen but they seeped through her skin, crawled into her, laid seeds of doubt and regret that she couldn’t ignore.   
“Basil!” The voice grew insistent. Dorians shouts pulsated through her mind, the choked sobs coming from her mouth a dull background noise.   
“Look at me, Basil!” The bed creaked as she pulled harder against the ropes that tied her down, tearing her ivory skin and replacing it with a shining red.   
“Look at me!!” The voice was disconnected, inhuman. It was spoken through the walls and floors, it reverberated through them. It gripped the artist’s heart and squeezed.

 

I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

 

Dorian laughed, it was hollow and dark. “And what about you, Basil? Do you think God will forgive you?” She spat the word God as if it was poison in her mouth.   
“It was you who made me what I am, don’t you dare forget! It was your painting!” Blame was thick on her tongue. Guilt ran through Basil, like acid through her veins.   
“Do you pray, Basil? You got down on your knees for me so easily!” The voice sneered at her, teeth bared and animalistic. She wanted the artist to suffer as much as she did.   
“Don’t.” Basil’s voice was barely a whisper, but the look in her eyes said it all. The memories that once made her smile now came with a pang of humiliation as she remembered all of the things she had done for Dorian without question. All of the girls whim’s had been law unto her. 

 

Offer me that deathless death

 

The priests chanting grew louder, yet still competed to be heard over Dorian’s cries. The girls eyes had rolled back in her head, revealing a bloodshot white that stared into the ceiling. Suddenly, Dorian had gone quiet. Basil let her hands drop from her face and looked over at the bed. Dorians golden locks were sprawled out around her and Basil’s first thought was that she looked.. holy. A biblical image carved out of ivory and gold. An angel crying tears of red. Her mouth continued to move, though the words were now barely whispers. The priest dropped his book and took out a small vial. Holy water. As he sprinkled it over the bed the girl screamed and convulsed as if it burned her. It reminded the artist of broken glass. She was shattering.

 

Good God, let me give you my life

 

And then there was nothing. Silence buried them, seeping into the room and drowning the noise of busy London streets outside. Like the ringing after a bomb goes off, the cloud of malaise fading into a resigned shock. Tears glistened against Dorian’s pale cheeks, her chest heaving with every sob that racked her body. As Basil let her eyes decipher what had just occurred she noticed a scar on the girls hand that had not been there before. She could make out the beginnings of wrinkles sketching around her previously youthful eyes. Yet the artists view of her was not tainted. To her, Dorian remained as beautiful as ever. The corners of Basil’s mouth shook as she tried to give the girl what she hoped was a reassuring smile. It was going to be okay.


End file.
